This is where I come in
by SGreenD
Summary: Even big Dixie Mafia Bosses need a hobby, and Wynn Duffy takes his very, VERY seriously. - Collab with TellatrixForever.


This story came into existence through a collaboration with TellatrixForever. Really, this is what happens when he comes along with one of his ideas about what if this and that happened and the two of us keep spitballing for hours, no, days. It hovers constantly close to the edge of a Crack!fic, but since I've never written one and take myself and my writing way too seriously, it never actually crosses that line. I think.

Now, what else is to say... I have no idea whatsoever about MMORPGs, WoW or tracing IP addresses; I got rudimentary information off of wikipedia and Google and bullshitted my way through the rest, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes I've made. This story takes place a couple days after "Slaughterhouse", but in my Penny-Verse, though you don't need to read The Penny Part 1. (If you're that surprised that Devil is alive in this verse, though, maybe you should give it a try.)

There are SO many cultural references in this story that it would take too long to list them all, so I guess we can make it into a game of Spot The Reference, even though I have to admit I myself lost count of them. The winner takes it all!

WARNING: As is my custom there's quite a lot of explicit language.

Enjoy!

* * *

This is where I come in

* * *

The sun was shining almost relentlessly as Raylan Givens drove south on Lexington Road to Harrodsburg. It was still unseasonably warm for early October, and Raylan had rolled down both front windows in his town car as he sped along the road, past Cog Hill Cemetery, his Stetson lying discarded on the passenger's seat. It had been four days since the events in Ellstin Limehouse's slaughterhouse, and still every night Raylan dreamt about how it had felt to hold another man's arm in his hand. He recalled Quarles's almost comically distorted grasp for it, and Raylan remembered pulling it out of Quarles's reach on autopilot. He'd heard from Art that the doctors had managed to stitch the damned thing back on. Raylan wondered if that effort wasn't wasted, since the man would spend the rest of his days behind bars, and he honest to God hoped it wouldn't take. Served him right, a life one-armed, after all the messes he'd caused.

The paperwork in the aftermath had been hell, of course. Raylan hadn't seen Boyd since that night, either, when he'd walked out of the office like nothing had ever happened. Arlo hadn't said anything on the matter but what was typed out in his file, his "confession" of having killed Tom Bergen and Colton Rhodes, the latter of which everybody knew was bullshit. Raylan had been half-convinced it would have been that Devil fella they would have dug up. Boyd's information as to Devil's whereabouts had sounded rather shady, and Raylan had been ready to come and identify the body, look for an Aryan Brotherhood-tattoo on the left forearm and an Odin Rune on the neck. Turned out to be unnecessary, surprisingly. Maybe Boyd had been telling the truth when he'd said Devil was doing business up north. Lord knew Boyd Crowder telling the truth happened seldom enough.

Raylan making the drive to Harrodsburg had nothing to do with any of that, though, at least not directly; the entire ordeal was over, Arlo Givens was locked up and would hopefully die in prison soon, Boyd was out and would soon do something else they could lock him up for. Limehouse wanted to be left in peace. Quarles was out of the picture. Raylan still had tons of paperwork on his desk. He didn't rightly have the time to do any trips anywhere for the next week or so, but there were still questions nagging at him. Of course, there were the obvious things, like, what was gonna happen about Winona and the baby? Was Raylan gonna be a shitty dad? He was honestly afraid he might be.

Another question was: What had happened to Gary Hawkins? Why did he have to die? Gary had been an idiot, and an asshole, but he hadn't deserved to go out that way, put down like a dog on a front yard, left there for the world to see. Dozens of questions were still unanswered (how would they get Boyd arrested if everything he did just always seemed to magically evade the law's grasp? What had Colton Rhodes done to get killed if he had been an old friend of Boyd's? Since Devil Lennox had not been lying in that grave near Black Lake Creek, where was he? And so on and so forth), but now that the thing was starting to blow over, Raylan reckoned that he could get at least that one answer. And there was only one person he knew to get that answer from.

Raylan had put a BOLO out the day before, and this morning, he'd finally gotten a call. Wynn Duffy's motor coach had been sighted on East Lexington Street, corner to Greenbriar Drive, in Harrodsburg, so that was where Raylan was headed. He'd told Art he had to pick up a few things; he'd deal with the fall-out of having been gone for over two hours when it came to that.

John Denver was playing on the radio, and it was hot inside the car, despite the wind blowing in and messing up Raylan's hair. All in all, a small voice inside Raylan's head that sounded unsettlingly like Boyd said, it ain't so bad, is it?

The drive from the Marshal's office to where Duffy's motor coach was currently located took Raylan about 45 minutes; the giant mobile home was hard to miss as it towered on the side of the road. Raylan put his car in park right next to it on a patch of green. He was certain parking was not allowed here, but it hadn't stopped Duffy, either, and there was no-one around to complain. He could hear faint music coming from inside the motor coach, it sounded blues-y.

Raylan knocked on the door and, as usual, it was Mike who opened and stuck his head outside. Raylan smiled and tipped his hat.

"Hello there" he said, friendly. Mike frowned.

"Mr. Duffy, it's the Marshal, Givens" he called over the music. A minute of silence followed, accompanied by the blues-y music, then the music stopped. Mike turned back to Raylan, who raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Hope this ain't a bad time?"

"You can come in" Mike said, stepping aside.

Raylan did step into the motor coach, raising a hand in Mike's direction. "No need to search me for guns. I'm carryin' one, that's all you need to know."

"We're fine, Mike, let him in" Duffy called from where he was sitting at the small retractable table made out of polished wood. Duffy was busy typing away at a small laptop and barely spared him a glance.

"Marshal" he said in way of a greeting. "What a nice surprise on this sunny day."

"Mr. Duffy. Uh, am I interruptin' somethin'?"

"Not quite" Wynn Duffy said and finally looked at him. "Is this a life-and-death situation? If you're here to play another round of Harlan Roulette with me, I'm afraid you got the wrong trailer. If not" and he turned back to his computer, "I am actually a bit busy at the moment, but do say what you came here for."

"Well" Raylan began and took his hat off, looking for a place to sit down, opting for the padded bench across from Duffy, "do you remember Gary Hawkins?"

Duffy halted in his typing, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Kind of hard to forget."

"That's right, Gary was… hard to forget. An asshole, a liar, and dumb as shit."

"So I'm taking it you don't miss him?"

"Oh, nobody misses him. Not even he himself does, I'm sure."

"Then why the hell are you sitting here in my motor coach, asking me about him?" Duffy asked, frowning at Raylan.

"Ah, you know, I just thought, such a lovely day outside, I figured I could go for a drive, get some fresh air, and get some answers while I'm at it. See, you don't have to be afraid to tell me shit now, I mean, Quarles is behind bars, will probably stay there for quite some time…"

"Marshal Givens, I have to correct you here, I was never 'afraid' of Quarles" Duffy interrupted him, sounding annoyed.

"Oh, you weren't? Sorry, major misconception on my part, then, huh?"

"Yes, that sounds more like it."

"Well, anyway. As I was saying, what a great-"

"What the FUCK?!"

Raylan frowned; Duffy wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking at the computer screen. And he was obviously seeing something he did not like at all.

"What the fuck is going on!" Duffy shouted at his laptop, typing furiously. "What the… where's all my… SHIT!"

"Everythin' alright?" Raylan asked.

"No, nothing is alright! All my stuff is gone!"

"What stuff?" Raylan was confused. Wynn looked absolutely stunned.

"Everything alright?" Mike asked, joining them in the center of the motor coach.

"No, nothing is fucking alright!" Wynn ground his teeth together. "Fuck!"

"Sir?" Mike sounded cautious.

Raylan looked between Mike and his boss. "The hell's goin' on?"

"All my shit is gone! My weapons, my gold, my… rewards…" Wynn Duffy sounded devastated. Mike scrunched up his face like this was a seriously bad piece of news, but Raylan still didn't get it.

"What weapons?" he asked and stood up to throw a look at the computer screen. He barely suppressed laughter at what he did see.

"It's all gone… somebody must've hacked into my account… shit!" Duffy slammed a fist into the small table.

"World of Warcraft? Wynn" Raylan looked at him, grinning, "seriously?"

Wynn fixed him with a glare. "Don't you dare laugh about this, Marshal. This is a serious matter."

"It's a game!"

"FOOTBALL is a game. Baseball is a game. World of Warcraft is a massively multiplayer online roleplaying game used as a tool for academic research by psychologists and sociologists with over eight million subscribers worldwide and holding a Guiness World Record for it. So, Marshal, you better stick to what you know, cause I've heard it said that people don't like people who talk shit about shit they don't know shit about."

"Okay." Raylan lifted both hands in a placating gesture. "Jesus Christ."

"Shit." Duffy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Shit. What am I gonna do… it took me years to get to that point…"

"Well, be that as it may" Raylan said, feeling his opportunity for answers evaporating into thin air, "Gary Hawkins-"

"I'm sorry, Marshal, but this is really not the time to talk about poor retarded Gary and his self-inflicted misfortunes" Duffy interjected. "I got more pressing matters to tend to right now."

"So your fictional adventures in Pandora are more important than somebody losing their lives?"

"First, it's Azeroth; you're mixing things up. Second" Wynn Duffy bristled with anger, "I thought you said Gary was dumb as shit and that nobody misses him, so why would his demise be a more pressing matter than someone hacking into my account and stealing everything I've gained through spending extensive amounts of money and time throughout years, and YEARS, of playing?"

"Well-" Raylan began a comeback, but Duffy had already stopped listening to him.

"What am I gonna do… GOD. Mike?"

"Well, Sir…" Mike scratched his shaved head. "You could, you know, call Phred."

Duffy groaned, and Raylan wondered who this Phred was and whether he'd just made the drive to Harrodsburg and directed Art's anger towards himself for nothing but a lesson in World of Warcraft logistics. It certainly seemed so right at this moment.

"If I ask her for a favor now" Duffy was saying, "she'll be terribly smug at our Christmas dinner this year, and she'll expect something way nicer than a card and a sandwich toaster…"

"Yeah, but" Mike shrugged. "I can't think of anythin' else, Sir. Arnett's dead, and…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know you're right. I'll call her now." Duffy sighed and then looked at Raylan. "Marshal. You're still here."

Raylan shrugged. "Where else am I gonna go?"

"Well, you can go climb the Nanga Parbat if that's what you feel like, but you cannot stay here. I have a call to make. It's always nice to see you, you know where the door is, give my regards to your lovely ex-wife if she wants them, goodbye, goodbye."

Duffy made a shooing motion towards the door, focused on his phone. "I hate calling her this early in the year. Our last dinner was only three months ago. Is she still dating the wimp?"

"Mark" Mike answered.

"Right, Mark. I keep forgetting his name…"

"Okay then" Raylan said awkwardly. "I'mma just… leave you to it. Next time I need to find you, I'll just put a BOLO out."

Duffy was already on the phone, so Raylan just took his leave. That turned out a lot different than I'd anticipated, he thought to himself. Apparently, today had not been a day for answers. Actually, now Raylan had even more questions than when he'd arrived, the issue of who the hell this mysterious Phred was and why Duffy had Christmas dinner with her included.

And what the fuck was the Nanga Parbat?

* * *

Wynn Duffy hadn't lied to Mike. He did hate calling Phred this early in the year. He just hated calling her, period. They rarely spoke on the phone; Christmas cards, two or three dinners a year and the occasional e-mail were the only communications they upheld with each other. An e-mail would have been more pleasant, but this was an urgent matter, so it had to be directly and immediately addressed. Wynn sighed, looking through the names on his phone. It was noon, on a Friday, so she had to still be at work. That excluded her landline number, and since most of the time, Phred had her cell phone on silent when she was working, that left the office number as Wynn's only option.

Marshal Givens was just taking his leave when Wynn hit the call button and put the phone to his ear. He heard the line connect itself, a steady beep in his ear that never ceased to annoy him, before it got picked up.

"Baxter-Hawley Construction, Frankfort, Melissa Warner, how may I help you?"

Wynn listened to the secretary rattling down her phone greeting, and said as politely as he was currently able to, "Hello, I'd like to speak to Ms. Duffy please."

"I'm sorry, she's quite busy today, she said not to let any calls through, Sir. Maybe I can help?"

"I'm her fucking brother, for God's sake" Wynn snapped. "Tell her it's Wynn and that it's urgent!"

"Oh… okay, I'll… see what I can do" Melissa Warner said, sounding subdued. Wynn could not have cared less.

"You won't just see, Ma'am, you'll get her on the phone, I don't give a shit how. It's what you get paid for."

"Sir, I'll have to ask you to be-"

"Go get her, I'll hold the line, thanks a lot." Wynn put his phone on the table and rubbed his temple. "Jesus Christ, where does she get these imbeciles from? A third of her people were sent there by me, and you would think that THEY would be the stupid ones; and, well, you'd be wrong."

Mike shrugged. "What if you can't reach her?"

"Oh, I'll reach her alright. If I say it's urgent, Phred knows it's urgent. You know I don't throw that term around lightly."

"Yeah, but, Mr. Duffy, that your account got hacked, is it…"

"Oh, now don't you start like the Marshal!" Duffy frowned. "Do you have any idea how much money the shit is worth? If at some point of time I do get sick of it, I could still sell my weapons and get it back! That won't happen, though, if I let whatever dickhead did this get away with it just like that. You know that's not me."

Mike nodded. "Right, Sir. Sorry."

Wynn picked up his phone again and held it against his ear; Kenny G bleared tinnily into his ear to signal that he was currently on hold.

"Pick it up, Eugenia, Jesus Christ, come ON."

Nothing happened. Wynn sighed. Could this day get any worse?

CLICK. "Hello? Wynn? Melissa said you said it was urgent? She was near tears, poor girl."

Wynn sighed in relief. "Yes, it's me. Your secretary's a wimp, you know."

"Of course she is. That means she's way too nice to not work after hours if I ask her to, and she almost never wants time off. Money saved, big brother, that's the one good thing about wimps. So, what's so urgent, huh? Christmas is in two months, it couldn't wait till then?"

"No, Phred, I'm sorry. I" and Wynn grimaced as he was speaking these hated words, "I need a favor."

"Oooooh. Do you now. This is getting to be a real habit of yours, isn't it, Wynn, asking me for favors?"

"Oh, come on. The last time I sent you someone was half a year ago. And it's not that today. I, uh…" This was the hard part. At least Phred was into MMORPGs, as well, so she would be able to appreciate the misery of the situation Wynn was currently in.

"Somebody hacked into my World of Warcraft account and stole my entire artillery and currency, and now I wanna know who this bastard is and where he lives so I can get it back and give the asshole a lesson he won't forget."

"Oh." Eugenia sounded surprised. "Oh, well, I can see why that would piss you of, brother. That's shitty, hacking somebody's account just like that. I would know."

"Obviously you would, that's why I called you, Eugenia, so. Would you help me with my problem?"

"What will I get?"

"What do you need?"

"Well, Mark and I always wanted to fly to the Bahamas…"

Wynn rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Phred, you have enough money to pay for that yourself."

"But it would leave a hole in my savings, and you asked me for a favor. A vacation would make for a lovely Christmas present, and maybe Mark would start to like you better then."

"Mark doesn't hate me, he is terrified of me. Two weeks on the Bahamas is not gonna change that."

"No, but since he's a wimp, he'll be nicer."

"Oh God." Wynn raised his eyes to the ceiling. She really was related to him. "Okay, fine. Two weeks on the Bahamas. Will you help me now?"

"Yes, Wynn. Okay. You'll have to come over, though, I really have a lot on my plate right now, and I won't be home until eight."

"Alright, we're coming. I'm in Harrodsburg, I'll be there in about an hour."

"Alright" Phred said and hung up.

"Mike" Wynn ordered, "get behind the wheel, sally out to Baxter-Hawley. You remember the address?"

"Yes, Sir" Mike said, already starting the engine. The motor coach set into motion.

Eugenia "Phred" Duffy had been running the Baxter-Hawley Construction company in Frankfort, Kentucky for almost ten years, overtaking it from Milhouse Baxter after his partner (and partner) Sean Hawley mysteriously disappeared. That was the first favor Wynn ever did his sister. Eugenia repaid Wynn by sometimes employing guys Wynn needed to have an employment as cover for when he wanted them to do shady stuff that Eugenia only shadily knew about. Wynn had never explicitly told her what had happened to Hawley, he'd just sent her a card, masked as a birthday congrat, that said "you're welcome" about an hour before Baxter offered her the position, saying that he couldn't do it without "Shawnie".

That was about as affectionate as Wynn and Eugenia could get with one another: By doing favors. The dinners were sometimes uncomfortable, other times filled with business talk. Eugenia Duffy was quite aware of who her brother was, and she'd never forget him his first big favor. But Wynn had only done it out of a promise they'd both given their late mother that they'd never lose contact because, as she'd put it, "Family is everything".

Neither Wynn nor Eugenia shared that opinion. But for their mother's sake, whom they'd both loved, they were willing to pretend.

Baxter-Hawley Construction was located on Wilkinson Blvd., which Eugenia relished because it was less than 15 minutes to the Lakeview Springs Golf Course where she had spent her lunch break quite often in the past. It was one of the reasons why she'd insisted on moving to Bellepoint. Mark The Meek (as Wynn had secretly christened him) had nothing to say to that but "okay".

Baxter-Hawley Construction was a big, non-descript building, a gray asphalt block. But Phred had not wanted the company because it was nice to look at, but because it was a goddamned cash machine. Wynn sighed when Mike pulled up in front of it. He already saw a big part of the money from Stacey Granger's whore house go out the window for a two week vacation that he was not even allowed to go on. Another big part was going to go to Devil Lennox, but, granted, without that tattooed kid from Harlan with the questionable taste in music there would still be a Stacey Granger, and hence no money for Wynn at all.

"We're here, Sir."

"Yes, I can see that." Wynn stood up and brushed off his suit jacket. "Alright, let's do this. The faster I get this over with, the better."

"Yep" Mike said and held the door of the motor coach open for Wynn.

"It's been a while… do you remember where her office is?"

"Uhm. I think it's the second floor, Sir, but I'm not sure."

"Well, it's more than I got, so let's do this."

They stepped into the lobby then, and a young, pretty lady at the reception repeatedly said "Excuse me, Sir, excuse me, where are you going? Sir? Sir? Excuse me". Wynn chose to ignore her, heading straight for the elevators. The echoing of high-heeled steps suggested that the receptionist was walking over to where he and Mike were standing in front of the elevators; Wynn didn't even bother to turn around. This was an urgent matter, a fucking urgent matter, and he did NOT have time to pretend to wait for the receptionist to call around and shit. A rustling of clothes behind him and the clattering steps stuttering to a halt told Wynn that Mike had showed her his holster, which almost always made normal people back off. It worked now. Probably another situation in which the employment of wimps came in handy, Wynn mused.

Stepping into the elevator, Wynn waited for Mike to join him in the confined space before pressing the button for the 2nd floor that said "Management". It sounded promising.

As soon as the doors to floor 2 opened, Mike and Wynn were greeted with the sight of a slightly annoyed Eugenia Duffy standing right in front of them, arms crossed, eye brow raised.

"Greetings, Dr. McCoy" Wynn said, grinning at her.

Phred huffed. "My receptionist just called me in total panic, saying two armed men just stepped into the elevators and that she was gonna call the police. I barely managed to stop her."

"But you did manage. That's why you're the Manager of this place." Wynn released a long breath of air. "Hello there, sister."

"Wynn." Phred looked at Mike. "You still got your guard dog, I see. Whatever happened to the other one, the dumb one. What was he, a… wrestler?"

"A boxer, Phred, and he was shot more than a year ago. Can we talk in your office?"

"Sure. Does he have to come, too?" She jerked her thumb at Mike.

"Well, where else would he go?"

"Alright. This way."

Eugenia's office was not as big as one would have expected considering she was the head of the company; it was a small room, the huge desk almost filling half of it. Three computer monitors and a vast array of papers and folders and pens were spread out on it. Wynn shuddered at the sight of it. Eugenia had always been a bit messy, but it was always a mess with a system, though always one only she herself could see.

"Okay then" Phred said, sitting down in her office chair. "So tell me exactly what happened, Wynn."

Mike and Wynn stood in front of her. The desk was facing the wall, and there was only one chair in the room, the one Phred currently occupied. The room was only dimly lit, and the computer screens flooded it with an eery blue light. Phred smoothed out her dress skirt. For such a messy person, Wynn thought, she'd always had a way of putting herself together that suggested nothing but perfectionism.

"Well, this noon I was trying to gain access to my account at World of Warcraft" Wynn began. "It wouldn't work at first. I was repeatedly asked to enter my security code, and even that wouldn't work. I figured the servers were down or something, it's happened before. And then when I could finally log in, well, I visited my account, and all my shit was gone. My weapons, my gold, my rewards, fucking everything."

"Okay" Phred nodded. "Did you communicate with someone new in the last few weeks? Someone who asked you weird questions or wanted to hang out with you a lot without premonition?"

"Well, there was this guy who wanted to drink a beer with me, he called himself Locke123…" Wynn frowned. "You think it could have been him?"

Phred shrugged. "Maybe." She whirled around in her office chair and grabbed her keyboard. "Let's get this party started. I'm gonna try and log in, okay? What's your avatar's name?"

"Eschak31."

Eugenia's fingers hovered over the keyboard. "Could you spell that?"

"E-S-C-H-A-K, then 3, then 1, no blanks. It's Vulcan for killing someone with your mind, and 31 stands for…"

"Leonard Nimoy's year of birth, I know, big brother, I love Spock, too."

"Who doesn't?" Wynn said. "What are you doing now?"

"Looking for traces in your account… shit, you really got robbed. It's gonna take some doing."

"Well, take your time." Wynn leaned against the closed door of the office. "Just not too much time."

* * *

Eugenia did do her best, not necessarily because Wynn was her brother, but because she had a lot to do that day and she knew Wynn would not leave her office until she could give him information to work with. Much to Wynn's dismay she had not been able to pin the traces of the offending IP address she could find to one specific setting; all she could give him was a town, and it wasn't just any town in Kentucky, no, it had to be dirty, disgusting, inbred HARLAN.

"Shit" Wynn murmured, staring at the center one of the three computer monitors. "I hate this place."

Phred looked at him questioningly. "You been there before? Why would you? It's a shithole mining town."

"Ah, it's complicated." Wynn pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Meaning I'm better off not knowing. Okay then. Just, this is all I can give you Wynn. North-east corner, Harlan, Harlan County. It's accurate to about half a mile. It's a computer in that district, no doubt about it."

"Yeah, well. I can hardly go down there and knock on every door in Harlan and say, 'excuse me, did you hack into my World of Warcraft account, because if you did, I'm gonna hurt you?' I mean, I could, but I do have other things to do."

"Well, you said you've been there before, Lord knows why. Do you know someone who lives there? It's a small town, right? Maybe someone can give you a lead on this guy."

"Huh." Wynn pondered it. "Now that you mention it, I do know someone who's lived there his entire life, whom I've been corresponding with for the last three months… I could give him a call."

He stepped over to his sister and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Thanks a lot, Phred, you have been a real help today. Uh, give my regards to M… uhm."

"Mark?"

"Yes, Mark. Give my regards to him. Mike, we gotta go. I'll see you at Christmas. Bye."

"So you're thinking about callin' Devil, right?" Mike asked in the elevator.

"Yes, I am. I could call the Marshal, but, a) I don't think he'd be willing to help me, considering his reaction to my predicament this noon, and b), he was gone 20 years, and I'm not sure if he knows his way around Harlan and its people as well as dear Mr. Devil who's lived there his entire thirty-something years."

"And you think he's gonna wanna help you after Shaun stabbed him in the back?"

"What? That was not my fault." Wynn nodded at the scared receptionist when they crossed the lobby. "If he wants his money that he's rightfully earned, he should be helpful, and I'll be sure to remind him of that."

As soon as they entered the motor coach, Mike got behind the wheel, knowing the way to Harlan by heart, and Wynn fished his cell phone out of his pants pocket, scrolling through the address book. He'd saved Mr. Devil's number under D.L., just in case anyone ever tried snooping through his stuff. It was unlikely, but back when Quarles had still been strolling over the place, constantly looking over everyone's shoulder, especially Wynn's (funnily enough, though, never Devil's), caution had been first command in order to survive.

Wynn dialed and leaned back on his sofa, looking for the remote. It was a long drive to Harlan, and he was in the mood for some women's tennis now.

Devil answered his phone after the fifth ring. "Yeah?"

"Good day, Mr. Devil, glad to hear you're still in one piece."

"No thanks to you. What is it?"

"Well, considering you're from Harlan, I was wondering if you could help me out a bit."

"How?"

"I just need a little information" Wynn said and waited for Mr. Devil to deny him help, already preparing his "remember who you're talking to" routine about how Wynn sat on some money that he would think twice about giving to Devil. But the man surprised him time and time again.

"Sure. What d'you wanna know?"

"Uhm." Wynn cleared his throat, thrown off balance. "Well, you wouldn't by any chance know anyone in the north-east corner of Harlan who'd be interested in hacking World of Warcraft accounts, would you?"

"World of Warcraft?" Now it was Devil who sounded genuinely surprised. "You mean that nerd shit on the internet?"

"Yes, that."

"Nah, man, no idea. Who'd wanna do that? And what for?"

"That's exactly what I want to know, Mr. Devil."

"Yeah, well. I can't tell you who's into that shit. I ain't the NSA. But I do know that Nicky Cush moved there after he had to sell his whore house to that dickhead, what's his name… Dexter… Desmond…"

"I don't care about whoever he sold his whorehouse to, Jesus Christ."

"Delroy! That's right, he sold Audrey's to Delroy cause he was kinda losin' his mind, I think. Moved to that corner then, buildin' hats out of tin foil and that kinda stuff."

"Mr. Devil, why are you telling me this?"

"Cause Nicky's the only guy I know who lives in that area that knows his way around computers and hacking shit."

The muffled sounds of a woman's voice came over the line, and Devil halted. "Yeah, thanks, babe, I'mma hang up now" he called before focusing on Wynn again.

"That's all I can tell you, man. Gotta go now, dinner's ready."

"Wait a second. Do you know the address of this Mr. Cush?"

"I can tell you the street."

"Go ahead then."

Devil told him what street Nicky Cush lived in, and the woman's voice sounded again, impatiently.

"That's all I got. My spaghetti's gettin' cold."

"Alright, Mr. Devil, enjoy your meal."

Devil hung up then, and Wynn mused over what he'd learned. Nicky Cush. Interesting.

"He tell you anything useful?" Mike called from the driver's seat.

"Maybe. We'll see when we're there."

* * *

The street Mr. Devil had referred to was a rundown little alley that looked mostly unlived in. It was easy to see which houses were still inhabited: A total of five houses out of the maybe twenty buildings had cars standing in front of them and looked like someone at least pretended to clean the windows from time to time. The last house on the left, though, had a front porch the roof of which was covered in… tin foil.

"There, that one" Wynn said, pointing at it. "The last one on the left, that must be it."

"How do you know?" Mike asked. They started walking; Wynn did not want his motor coach to stand in this seedy shithole of a street, so Mike had parked it about 100 feet away.

"Just a hunch."

Wynn knocked on the door while Mike waited on the steps to the porch, annoyed by the sounds of wire hangers clicking against each other that hung from the ceiling and were swaying in the wind. Wynn gripped the Walther PPK a little harder that he held in hand. He had no idea who this Nicky Cush was (apparently he was a bit crazy, but really, who wasn't these days?), and the pressure of a gun against the neck could do wonders for people's cooperation.

A squeaking sound was heard from inside, and Wynn was immediately on high alert. He knocked again.

"Who's there?" a timid voice asked.

"Mr. Cush?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Could you open the door for me please?"

"Who's there?"

"Somebody who wants to talk to you, Mr. Cush, so, please."

Several locks were opened, if Wynn interpreted the clattering and metallic rumbling correctly. The door opened a crack, and that was all the invitation Wynn needed; all the pent-up frustration of a shitty day came over him as he gave the dark wood a hefty kick and made it spring open. A skinny guy with long, dark brown, scruffy hair who clearly needed a shower came into view, and he looked more surprised than anything, even more so when Wynn grabbed him by his collar and shoved the gun in his face.

"What the fuck is this?" Nicky Cush asked.

"This is where I come in and kick your ass for stealing from me!" Wynn answered. "Mike!"

"Comin'" Mike said and followed the two of them inside.

In the dirty living room that also had wire hangers dangling from the ceiling Wynn pushed Nicky Cush onto his stained, smelly sofa.

"Please, man" Cush stammered, "what the fuck did I do? I didn't do… I mean, please…"

"Did you steal from me?" Wynn asked, dead serious.

"Steal from you? I ain't never stole nothin', please… don't kill me…"

"I'll ask again. Did you hack into my World of Warcraft account and steal from me?"

"I didn't… oh." Cush swallowed heavily. "Uhm, what's your name again?"

"Eschak31. Does that name mean ANYTHING to you?" Wynn cocked his gun for effect.

"Uh, uhm, I mean, I, uh, it, well, yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe…?"

Wynn rolled his eyes, exasperated, and pushed his gun onto Cush's nose. "I've killed men I like more for less, you know, but if you just tell me the truth, we can fix it, and all will be well."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, Mr. Cush."

"You ain't shittin' me?"

"Who? Me? No, Sir, I'm not shitting you. I might shit ON you if you don't tell me the truth soon, though."

"Okay, okay, yeah, I did it. I, there was this quest that I really wanted to finish, but I need money for it, and I woulda given it all back to-"

"Enough, Jesus Christ" Wynn interrupted him. "I don't care what quest it was. You're gonna have to find another way to finish it. Whatever problems you may have, they're your problems and therefore not mine. Now, where's your computer, so you can fix it? I'll be waiting here until it's done."

Nicky Cush got up on shaky legs and walked over to his computer, sitting on a small shaky table by a bunch of plants that looked a lot like half a pot plantation. Drug raiders would have had the time of their lives in here, but that was not what Wynn was here for. He looked over Nicky Cush's shoulder as everything stolen was transferred back to his account.

"I ain't never gonna steal again, promise!" Cush said when the transaction was over and Wynn handed his Walther PPK to Mike after checking whether the safety was on. He chuckled at Cush's words.

"Mr. Cush, I don't give a shit who you steal from, so long as it's not me. Come on, Mike, I think we're just about done here."

"Alright" Mike turned to the door.

"Hey, though, uhm" Cush began, "you think we could, like, form a guild or somethin'? I really need some assistance with some shit, and we could chat… I mean, maybe we shouldn't, though, cause I heard that the government is totally tappin' us. With the satellites" he pointed to the wire hangers on his ceiling. "I'm tryin' to block their signals. But, if we did it quietly, maybe they wouldn't hear."

"Mr. Cush, I would not form a guild with you if my life depended on it, in gameplay or otherwise. I would prefer it that you never talk to me again, never steal from me again, and actually, just pretend I don't exist, and I'll gladly do the same for you."

"But I could send you an invite, huh? Just one invite-"

"Then this would happen." Wynn kicked him in the genitals. Hard. It was mean, too, but as Wynn watched the insane bastard writhing in pain he could not bring himself to feel sorry. Today had been one of those days.

"This is hell" Cush moaned, and Wynn huffed.

"This is not hell, you retarded asshole! This is fucking paradise compared to hell! I know it, I've fucking been there!"

Cush moaned something unintelligible, and Wynn crouched down next to him. "Go to North and South Vietnam when there's war going on and then tell me that a kick in the nuts is hell. Fucking imbecile."

He grabbed Cush's stringy hair and hit his head against the dirty wooden floor; it made a hollow THUNK sound, and Cush moaned again.

"Fuck you" he wailed.

"I hope we understand each other." Wynn righted himself and straightened out his suit. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Mike.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

"Yes. Let's just go."

The sun shone rather friendly while they walked down the decrepit street. Wynn was embarrassed about his outburst in front of Mike. Things like this rarely happened to him these days. Keep a tight lid on your emotions, that was what Wynn had learned. He and his sister both knew how that worked.

"Are you sure you're alright, Sir?" Mike asked again, cautiously, when they arrived at the motor coach.

"Yes, Mike." Wynn sighed. "No, not really, but I'll be fine. I got my shit back, and everything's gonna be fine. Today's just been one of those days."

"Amen to that" Mike said, getting behind the wheel. "Where to, Sir?"

"Lexington. I need to find a good travel agency; it's only two months till Christmas."

* * *

I have to add that Eugenia "Phred" Duffy's character is based mostly on TellatrixForever's ideas, especially the nickname that I had no idea of what it even meant. Urban Dictionary be thanked, I know it now. Wynn Duffy having a sister was mentioned on the show, though, season 2, ep 11, "Full Commitment".

The title of this story was inspired by the song "This is where I came in" by The BeeGees. LOVE that song. Check it out on youtube if you've never heard it before. The blues-y music Wynn is listening to in the beginning is I Am Kloot, since I pegged Wynn to be too cool to listen to Jazz crap. I think he likes the White Stripes, too.

I am working on Part 2 of The Penny, I promise, but life has had a funny way of getting in the way of that lately.

What's left to say is that Wynn Duffy's the only bad guy who's been on the show since season 1 and that he's just one supercool motherfucker. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing.


End file.
